All things you are, & briefly, as, in solitude, it ends.
—Larry Levis
There was something awful, something drain circling
about waking up early, waking into that still-dark world
where not even the grammar of abstractions could distract me
from the seasons taking on geographies of their own—geographies
uniform and disorienting, like mountains, like desert,
from the seasons taking on geographies of their own—geographies
uniform and disorienting, like mountains, like desert,
direction without knowing. And endless.
